The good news is Madam Noir and I resumed our weekly scone-date today. I had a glace cherry scone this week. It was heavenly. The bad news is that poor Madam N. is in the midst of a very messy break-up. Her girlfriend (who I never liked - I can say that openly now) has treated her appallingly - dumped her by utterly venomous and hateful emails and generally acted like Queen Cunt of the Kingdom of Cuntopia. So, it was hardly a jolly tete a tete. Madam Noir kept weeping into her cheese scone. The elderly lady in tweed at the table next to us was enthralled by the lezza chat, I could tell. I can imagine her telling her friend whilst arranging autumnal chrysanthemums for the harvest festival,
' Well Maude, you'll never guess, John Lewis is allowing lesbians in. They eat scones you know. Who'd have thought it!
I did inadvertently give the old dear another thrill.
'Do you need any shopping today?' queried Madam Noir.
'Yes. I must go to M&S. I am in desperate need of bras. I am sick of Cyril gnawing through them with his teeth. And, it's not just my bras he goes for. It's knickers too. He's a fiend, I don't know what I'm going to do with him.'
Poor old lady. What must she have thought. Even poorer me though, the only beast ripping at my underwear currently is a laundry raiding lurcher.
After scone scoffing and bra shopping Madam Noir and I went for groceries at M&S. I managed another classic foot in mouth episode.
'Oh, look at my shopping basket,' wailed Madam Noir. 'It is pitiful, I am shopping like a lonely OAP!'
It is true, her basket did only contain a lasagna for one and a solitary sherry trifle.
'Oh don't be daft,' I snapped. 'You are NOT shopping like an OAP. You have no battenburg, you have no milk roll, you have no tongue . . . '
Yes indeed. I did point out to a newly celibate lesbian that her life was lacking in tongue. Poor Madam Noir. Life is cruel and a broken heart is the worst form of agony. A shrink once told me that break-ups are harder to come to terms with than bereavements. You have to accept a bereavement. It is so final that you can do no other. With a break-up you have the agonising torture of knowing the person you love is still out there somewhere, but just doesn't want you. It truly is hell on earth.
Now, swarthy rogue update.
Rochester irked me earlier this week. As you know, he is contemplating a personalised number plate for his Peg-mobile. I decided to ask him what my ideal number plate would be. Obviously, this gave the oaf an opportunity to come up with suggestions along the bewitching angel/ celestial goddess/divine sexpot line. His suggestion?
Rochester: LEZZA 2
Rochester did like to imagine there was more to my relationship with Madam Noir than scones and shopping. What irked me was that I obviously didn't even warrant a Lezza 1 rating! I was pissed off. Very pissed off. Especially as one of his many wives turned lezza after splitting up from the rogue.
Miss U: Peg King, you are being too hard on yourself. Give yourself a break. Honestly. I’m aware that historically, after sleeping with you, many a girl has been so traumatised and distressed that she has run straight into the muscular arms of a woman of the male gender. I know that you are some sort of a King Midas of lesbians: one intimate touch from you and a woman is transformed into a 24 carat moss mumbler. Didn’t all your exs form a sort of social club/ support group? That was obviously for group sex and Birkenstock shopping. But, I was quite obviously immune. I am NOT a lezza. Not even faux-lezza (lezza-ette).
Rochester: I am surprised that the LEZZA 2 proposal has upset you so much. It is a pity that the DVLA don't allow question marks on number plates. Your ideal plate would surely just read ' LEZZA ?'
He is an utterly infuriating cunt. Rochester is off to see Grinderman this week. I was jealous. That was until I watched a clip of the band on Later with Jools Holland. Nick Cave, he has been my ideal man for so long. How I loved that demonic and wicked 'tache of his. He has shaved it off, and frankly, he has lost his brooding sexual charisma. He is simply looking 'past it'. Maybe it is time that Old Nick gave up the 'Just for Men' Noir hair dye and the velvet pimp suits. Maybe he should hang up his crucifix medallions and start buttoning up his shirts. Maybe Nick needs to invest in some nice knitwear and promote his new CD from the cosy confines of Countdown dictionary corner.
Nick Cave with 'tache (thrillingly vampiric silent movie villain)
Nick Cave sans 'tache (tawdry, trainspotting Taggart villain)
On another subject. As a lifelong Labour supporter I am unsure of how I feel about Ed Miliband becoming leader of the party. I mean, look at this picture. This is E.M. and his 'partner'. I can't help but feel he looks a bit autistic and Rain Man-esque here. He looks like he is in the company of his social worker (who has a bag stuffed with rubriks cubes and soduko puzzles to help keep him calm). He looks like he usually spends his days rocking in the corner of a Mencap drop-in centre, reciting pythagorean theorem and cutting his fish fingers into perfect hexagonal chunks.
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